The Salvation of Maggie Jordan
by iheartvolume
Summary: Post-Jim fiasco and post-Africa, Maggie Jordan is drowning in a sea of alcohol and one-night stands, until a chance meeting introduces her to a whole new world she never knew existed: the world of Roller Derby. It's hard and it's dangerous, but it may be the only thing that can bring Maggie back from the edge, that can give her the strength to battle her demons and come out on top.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Welcome! This is going to be a multi-chaptered story of undetermined length that'll be updated weekly. If you've never seen the Newsroom (you are really missing out), you still shouldn't have any problems following the story. **

**Just in case, here's a basic run-down: _News Night_ is a cable news TV show, Will McAvoy is the anchor, Mac McHale is the executive producer and Will's love interest. Maggie Jordan is an Associate Producer on the show working under Jim Harper, Senior Producer. Gary and Tess are also Associate Producers. Maggie's ex-boyfriend Don Keefer is the executive producer for another news show, _Right Now with Elliot Hirsch_, which comes on 2 hours after _News Night_. Sloan Sabbith is Don's sort-of love interest, and she is the resident financial expert for both shows and sometimes a substitute anchor. Lisa is Maggie's roommate and ex-best friend. Charlie Skinner is the president of Atlantis Cable News, which puts him in charge of all of the news shows. Hopefully that wasn't too confusing, but that's the basic cast of characters so far.  
**

**I've been planning and plotting out this idea for months now, and I'm beyond excited to finally be writing it. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for coming along on the ride! :)**

For the first time in several weeks, I wake up to an empty bed. I lay still, blinking the last vestiges of my semi-restful, alcohol-induced slumber from my eyes, my mind processing the musky scents and stark white ceiling. I lay still, and listen for a sound, any sound, that might indicate the presence of another who is also awake in this early morning, the light still a faint purple-orange-blue through the window. I hear it, a noise my brain slowly comes to process as a running shower, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I begin to move now, continuing the process of waking up with a greater urgency. If I'm quick enough, then maybe –

I twist myself out of the bed, pushing aside the deep red linens and searching for pants. Over by the door, my brain recalls blearily, and my shirt... Had my shirt even made it to the bedroom? I find it right outside, and just as I finish buttoning, the sound of running water stops. _Shit._

In a frantic rush, I grab my shoes and purse and slip quickly and quietly toward the door, and _shit_, my phone, charging on the nightstand. I scurry on tiptoes back through the apartment and yank the charger from the wall, shoving it hastily into my purse and making a break for the door.

A small part of me, hiding in the back of my mind, is impressed with how quietly I was able to slip out. I briefly congratulate myself for managing not to trip over anything. I keep my heightened pace, not daring to slow down until I reach the elevator, mashing the lobby button once, twice, three times, tapping my foot impatiently. After the doors finally close, I turn to my reflection in the shiny wall, fixing my hair and smoothing my clothes as best I can.

The doors open, and I make my way through the lobby, studiously avoiding any eye contact. An elderly doorman opens the door for me with a friendly smile, but for some reason the smile only annoys me. Even though I know it is unrealistic for the man to know what I was doing there, it still nags at me that he _might_ know, or suspect, or something. I keep moving briskly, head down, bustling amongst the early morning crowd of the city streets, and I don't dare slow until I'm on the subway, exhaling in a sigh of relief as the doors close.

It really is easier this way, despite the added anxiety. I've come to hate the morning-after dance, the awkward and flailing waltz when everyone sees everyone in a new light. The inevitable awkward conversation, the avoidance of eye-contact, the tension so thick it could be sliced with a knife. I've danced this dance now more times than I care to remember or think about.

Sometimes there are offers for breakfast, sometimes not. On occassion, my partner-for-the-evening wishes to engage in an encore, but I always beg off with claims of being late for work, even though I'm not due in for hours. Some ask to see me again. I have a fake phone number saved for this purpose, a dead number to a disconnected line. It's easier to avoid the hassle of explanations and let-downs.

The best mornings are the rare mornings like this, when I am able to escape with no contact at all. Mark (I'm pretty sure that was his name) seemed like a nice guy, if a bit dorky and overly-eager, but I had a feeling he would have been interested in more than just the one night, and I just don't have the energy to deal with that today.

To be fair, these days, I never have the energy to deal with just about anything that isn't work. Unfortunately, today is Saturday, which means there is no work. I don't even have anything to work ahead on today, and I'm at a total loss for what to do with myself. I wrack my brain, trying to remember my rommate Lisa's schedule today. It's 9 AM, and I'm pretty sure she's at work now, which is nice because it means that it's safe to go home and shower and spend a few hours in bed before I have to come up with somewhere else to be.

I sometimes wonder if Lisa knows where I go on the nights I don't come home. I wonder if she would even care. Probably not. It's been over four months since I got back from... well, it's been four months since I've been back, and in all that time, none of our conversations have lasted longer than 30 seconds. Anything that is of vital importance goes on the white board on the refrigerator.

I won't lie, it's painful living with Lisa. It's this constant daily reminder of every single thing I did wrong, shoved in my face at close range. I won't try and act like I don't deserve it, because I totally do. I probably deserve everything that's happened to me.

I lied to her about being in love with her boyfriend, Jim, and she had to find out from a YouTube video of me shouting at a Sex and the City tourbus, which said boyfriend conveniently happened to be on, trying to learn more about SatC in an attempt to make Lisa happy. And as if that weren't enough, I kissed him. What the hell kind of best friend does that? The shitty kind. Not to mention the fact that I did all of this behind _my_ boyfriend's back and lied to him too. Don never deserved that, even if he admitted afterward that he was never actually in love with me. And now I have to see Jim and Don at work every day and then go home to the apartment I still share with Lisa, and it's pretty much just the greatest thing ever.

The hard part is, I'm sure it's just as painful for Lisa, having to see me every day, and that makes me feel guilty. But I really don't have anywhere else to go, unless I move in with a stranger, and I've heard enough bad-roommate horror stories that I know it's better just to stay put. Also, it would put Lisa in a hard spot if I just up and moved. Even with 30 days' notice it's a challenge to replace a roommate, and she can't afford our apartment on her own.

I finally make it back to the apartment and take a long, hot shower, before grabbing some food and settling into my room. I lay in bed for awhile, trying not to let my mind wander, before finally giving in and pulling out my laptop. After puttering around with unimportant work stuff for half the day and not really accomplishing anything, I turn on Netflix and get lost in some stupid romantic comedy that came out recently. A few months ago, Lisa and I would have enjoyed watching together after a long day at work.

That time seems so far away now, and thinking about it for too long makes my heart ache. My life now is separated into Before and After 'The Event'. That's how I've come to refer to what happened in my brain. It saves me from having to linger on any of the details. I achingly remember how hard I pushed Mac, my boss, to let me go to Africa for a story. I remember, with a sick swirl in my stomach, how excited I felt when my coworker Gary and I boarded the plane.

If I close my eyes and lay still, I can still remember nearly a perfect image of the orphanage in my head. The sights, sounds, and smells. How terrified the children were, when they thought our camera was a gun. Meeting Daniel for the first time. The picture book that I read to him, over and over and over again, while he played with my hair, fascinated by the blonde color he'd never seen before. I will remember every word and picture in that book until the day I die.

I can recall with a frightening clarity the actual gunshots that rang out late that night in the darkness. _Pop. Pop. _The whimpers of frightened young voices. _Pop. Pop._ I can still feel the sense of urgency, as we roused the children. _Pop. Pop._ The fear in my heart as we scurried them onto the bus as quickly and quietly as we could. _Pop. Pop._ The confusion and terror as we realized that Daniel wasn't on the bus. _Pop. Pop. _Dragging him out from under the bed, carrying him on my back. _Pop. Pop._ Gary, falling to the ground, and my heart stopping, thinking he'd been shot. _Pop. Pop._ The utter relief I felt as we made it onto the bus and drove away. _Pop. Pop._ Daniel's lifeless body slipping off of me. _Pop. Pop._ Daniel's small, lifeless body...

I awake with a start, sweating profusely. I didn't even remember having fallen asleep. I moved the mouse on my laptop and got no response. The battery was dead. With a sigh, I leaned over to grab my phone and check the time. 8pm. _Damn._ I hadn't meant to sleep that long. Lisa would be home by now, unless she had gone out somewhere.

I pull myself out of bed and rifle through my closet, throwing on one of my dwindling number of feminine outfits, and tossing on some light make-up. I grab my purse and rifle through it, making sure I still have all my essentials, and get ready to leave. There's a quiet bar a few blocks away that I've been meaning to check out, and it seems like a decent place to pick up a guy. After sleeping all day and a nightmare like that, I know better than to try and face the night alone.

I open my bedroom door and slip out as quietly as possible, tiptoeing into the living room. Lisa is indeed home, watching some talk show on the TV. She glances up as she see's me passing. I don't expect her to acknowledge my presence, so it startles me a little when she speaks.

"I got a second job with a catering company. It'll mostly be evenings and weekends, so I'll be gone more. Just so you know."

I'm not sure what sort of response she's looking for, so I just nod. That seems to be enough for her, and she turns back to the TV show, no longer acknowledging my presence. I briefly, just for a moment, consider trying to say something else, but I can't think of a single thing to say that doesn't make me sound like a complete dick, so I just leave.

The New York City air is brisk and windy tonight, and I wrap my coat a little tighter around me as I walk, keeping my head down. I used to like walking around town with my head up, looking at the faces of my fellow New Yorkers, trying to guess what they did and who they were. I would make up stories for them in my head, about where they had been and where they were going, based on their facial expression or their clothes or what they were carrying with them. These days, though, I keep my head down, because I can't bear the thought of the story someone might write in their head if they saw my face.

The trip to the bar isn't long, and I'm pleased to be out of the cold air. I settle in on a semi-comfortable bar stool near the far end of the bar, order a gin and tonic, and begin scanning the other inhabitants of the bar. There is soft jazz playing in the background, and it takes me a second, but when I recognize the tune I almost laugh out loud at the irony of it.

"_You can't go on, thinking nothing's wrong, oh no. Who's gonna take you home, tonight?"_

The bartender is a decent-looking guy around her age, and as he finishes up with another patron he saunters back toward me with an easy smile on his face.

"Drinking alone tonight?" he asks, his voice as warm and easy as his face.

"Depends," I reply, forcing my own, well practiced, flirty smile back at him. "You wanna join me?"

His eyes light up a little as his smile grows. If I were in a better place, I might really like that smile. It's genuine, and that's a quality in short supply in this city.

He pulls up a stool and we sit, chatting about nonsense until suddenly it's 2 am. I am relieved when he invites me back to his place, which is conveniently located above the bar, which it turns out he owns. He turns off the lights and locks up the door before leading me up the stairs, and I am at ease now, because I know that I am safe from the demons in my head for at least one more night.


	2. Chapter 2

On bad days, even getting out of bed is a struggle. On bad days, I'm always incredibly tempted to just call out of work, and I know Mac, my boss, would let me without asking any questions, but I'm terrified that if I do it even just once, I won't be able to stop, and I'll never go back to work.

On bad days, the memories roll on repeat through my mind, refusing to stay contained in the mental box the therapist said I should shelve them in when I have to focus on other things. As if I could possibly have any control over the images running through my mind 24/7.

It was a human resources requirement that I attend at least one session with Dr. Wallace. He was an older, balding guy who looked like he hadn't been taking care of himself for several years, and he had a really irritating habit of constantly tapping his fingers. He wasn't particularly helpful, and I didn't go back. The prescription he gave me for Panadol went straight into a drawer when I got home, and hasn't been looked at since. I've heard too many horror stories about those sorts of pills, and anyway, I don't need them. On the bad days, though, it's tempting.

On the bad days, there is an incredibly soul-crushing despair that overwhelms me. I remember speaking a few years back to a friend from college who'd had a miscarriage, and she talked about how sometimes her sadness was an almost physical feelin. I understand, now, what she meant; a sadness so great that it pounds at your gut, forces you into a curled up ball of grief as you claw at your skin and tear at your hair and you can't imagine how you could ever possibly be okay again.

On the bad days, I feel like I'm drowning. On my best days, I just feel empty. Today is a bad day.

There's a breaking news story about an endangered missing child. I mean, I knew that something like this had to happen eventually. Considering my line of work, it was really only a matter of time, but knowing it was going to happen at some point doesn't make it remotely easier to deal with now that it's here.

The kid's name is De'Andre Jackson, and he's only eight years old. De'Andre is fortunate enough to have an ultra-rich uncle, and everyone knows that's the only reason the story is getting national coverage. If it weren't for the uncle, De'Andre would be just another black kid statistic.

Even considering the high level of public interest, _News Night_ doesn't usually cover these stories, preferring to leave them to the Washington crew, or, more likely, Don and Elliot at 10 o'clock. Will thinks they're fluff pieces, and refuses to, and I quote, "touch them with a 10-foot pole." But I guess this particular case hit Mac's soft spot, and no one here believes for a second that Will would ever deny Mac anything she wanted.

In the early afternoon rundown meeting, Mac keeps insisting that we stay positive and assume De'Andre will be found safe, even though it's clear from the case facts and past statistics of other missing child cases that this is probably not going to be a happy ending for anyone involved. Will pushes back against Mac's optimism, far more gently than usual, and eventually forces her to admit that we have to prepare for the worst case scenario.

Jim is put in charge and asks Gary to set up contact with law enforcement, while Tess solemnly agrees to try to reach a family member. I patiently wait for Jim to assign me a task. Despite everything that's happened between us, I'm usually his go-to on most stories because he knows I'm thorough and reliable. Also we have a non-spoken understanding that part of his job is to save me from whatever wacky oddball assignments I might otherwise end up with, courtesy Mac and Will's various whims. I repay him by working hard and fast and supporting him in any way he needs, and it works out great for both of us.

So, considering all this, it's kind of a slap in the face when his eyes meet me, he hesitates, and moves on to the next person without saying a word.

_Thanks, Jim._

He sits down and studiously ignores my glare. How could he do that to me? We had a thing! Loyalty, man. It gets you nowhere.

I give up on trying to smite Jim with my eyes and try to tune-in to what Mac is saying, but I can't get myself to focus on anything other than the missing child. It's like crack for my brain or something. I can't stop thinking about it. I've already spent a lot of mental energy today _not_ thinking about it.

I tell myself I'm npt going to think about what De'Andre looks like. I'm not going to think about what's happening to him, how terrified he must be, the anguish written all over his poor mother's face... _Sigh._ And I'm certainly not going to let my brain start comparing him to Daniel.

I have a strictly enforced no-Daniel policy at work, because otherwise it would be impossible to accomplish anything. The constant drinking helps a little, dulling the edges of my mind where the worst memories rest. I mean, sure, coming to work drunk all the time probably isn't the best long-term solution, but hey, it seems to work out alright for Charlie. And as long as my work performance isn't affected (it's not), and it doesn't hurt anyone (it won't), then it really doesn't matter and it's no one's business but mine.

In fact, if anything, my work performance has vastly improved since The Event. I dive headfirst into stories with an all-consuming passion because work is the ultimate distraction. On slower days, when there is no work to throw myself into, I fill the spaces with silly online quizzes and Buzzfeed articles and any other meaningless diversions I can find. Ironically, I'm probably more in-tune with myself now than I've ever been. For example, I now know which character I'd be in Star Wars (Princess Leia), what color my aura is (blue), and my true mental age (57). Terribly fascinating stuff, right? I wonder what psychobabble bullshit Dr. Wallace would have to say about those answers.

On my best days, distraction works out fine. On bad days, I usually find a quiet corner where I can hide undisturbed and fold in on myself, waiting until it is safe to return home and disappear into the relative safety of my bed. Today is a bad day.

Someone awkwardly clears their throat and I snap back to the present. I suddenly realize that everyone's looking at me and I start to panic, frantically trying to recall the last thing I heard Mac say. _Sigh._ This is what happens when the no-Daniel policy is broken.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" I finally ask, desperately fighting the blush that creeps up into my face.

"I asked if you felt comfortable briefing the guest for the environmental block tonight?" Mac repeats, tilted head and crinkled eyes expressing a concern that turns my face even redder in embarrasment.

"Yeah, sure, of course," I answer hastily, desperate to get everyone's eyes off of me. Mac gives me a quick smile and moves on, seemingly satisfied for the moment that I haven't _completely_ gone off the deep end.

I'm initially relieved that I've been given something seemingly normal to work on after all, but then suddenly it occurs to me that I have no idea what the environmental story is about.

If only Jim hadn't picked today to leave me hanging. _Thanks a lot, Jim._ If only my eyes really could smite people.

The rest of the meeting passes pretty quickly, and I make sure to pay at least half-attention to what Mac says, trying to prevent a repeat of earlier. Unfortunately, she says nothing more about my story, so I'm still stuck in the dark.

As we're leaving the meeting I walk over to Jim and poke him hard in the side.

"Oww," he whines. "What was that for?"

I don't answer, turning on the spot and heading back to my desk. I am now a girl on a mision. I am strong, determined, and focused.

_'I can do this. I can totally do this.'_

The pep talk works, until I sit down at my desk and realize I have no earthly clue where to start. I have no clue what the story is, who the guest is, or even what block it's in.

_'Shit. Shit shit shit.'_

I spend a few minutes staring blankly at my computer screen, pondering my next step. The most obvious solution would be to ask somebody, but that would mean admitting that I wasn't paying attention in the meeting, and people will start getting all concerned and I just can't handle that today.

I sit there, engulfed in my frustration and self-pity, when someone suddenly drops a small stack of papers on my desk. I look up, startled, to see Don sauntering away. I pick up the stack he dropped and can't help but smile just a little out of appreciation and relief; he photocopied his meeting notes for me.

_'Thank God he still sits in on our rundown meetings.'_

Despite everything that's happened between Don and me, and despite what he apparently thinks of himself, he's a good guy. Which is a huge relief, because all things considered, he has every right to be a total asshole to me, but he never is. And these days he's one of the people who don't look at me with pity or treat me like I'll break at any moment, and those people are very few and far-between. I'll have to remember to do something nice for him later to thank him for this. But right now, it's time to get to work.

It turns out the story isn't actually that complicated. A woman is coming from an environmental think-tank to have a discussion with Will on why people refuse to believe that global warming is actually happening. It's a pretty well-covered topic already, so I'm surprised Will and Mac want to devote air-time to it. There is nothing in Don's notes about any new angle they want to cover, but maybe the woman from the thinktank will have something new to offer. Don has even helpfully written her name down in his tidy slanted scrawl: Jessica Marion.

I really don't need to type out any questions for the pre-interview, as the topic is pretty straightforward, but I do it anyway just to kill some time. I'm relieved the story hasn't turned out to be anything really weird or wacky after all, especially because then I really would have to smite Jim for leaving me to deal with it, and smiting people is probably hard work.

I briefly consider inviting Don out to lunch as thanks for sharing his notes, but that would require at least 30-40 minutes of awkward and forced conversation, which doesn't really appeal to me even on a good day. Anyway, he's busy helping out with the De'Andre Jackson case. At one point I go over and try to see if maybe I can assist in some way, maybe even just fact checking, but Don takes one look at me and waves me off. There seems to be a lot of that going around today.

I skip lunch, wasting a few more hours coming up with 'questions' for my pre-interview and taking more internet quizzes and looking at silly pictures of cats and reading about the '15 Things You're Doing Wrong in the Kitchen'. I successfully manage to navigate a significant portion of the rest of the day this way, until it starts edging closer to 6 o'clock, and I begin mentally preparing myself for having to deal one-on-one with a real, live person for at least two hours.

I'm suddenly acutely aware that the bullpen has gotten very quiet, and I look up to see a woman with bright purple hair and a lip ring standing in the center of the room, looking around. Everyone else seems to have frozen from shock.

"Can- can I help you?" one of the secretaries finally gets out.

"Um, yeah, I'm looking for a," she pauses, pulling a piece of paper out of her pocket. "Margaret Jordan?" I barely avoid cringing as a good number of the eyes in the room turn to me simultaneously. What could the purple-haired woman possibly want with _me?_

Suddenly, it clicks. The guest for the environmental story. So much for straightforward.

_Damn you, Jim._


End file.
